Fear Has a Name: A Novel (The Crittendon Files) Read online

  Every gear in her head spun till they rattled. Jack must have noticed a dazed look on her face.

  “Pam, go! Faye’s class. Basement.”

  The guy could be here, right in this building.

  God, please, let the girls be okay …

  She slammed the brown metal door open and hit the steps to the basement, each one feeling like a slow-motion moon walk.

  Every organ in her pounded in unison as she heaved in an enormous breath and banged open the metal door on the bottom level, mentally preparing to see the intruder.

  Faye’s Sunday school classroom was straight ahead about fifty feet, then left another seventy-five. Taking off, her heart drummed harder, more rapidly, rising to the base of her throat.

  She cut the corner hard at the ninety-degree turn in the hall, moving too fast to sidestep the couple coming her way. Her left shoulder bashed the man’s chest, and she heard the wind go out of him with an oomph.

  “I’m so sorry,” Pamela cried, regaining her balance, ripping herself from his clutches, and scrambling on. “My child … there may be something wrong.”

  She broke into a flat-out run down the long hallway for Faye’s room, dodging adults and children, scanning them feverishly for the man in black.

  Several parents stood waiting at the closed door for the kindergarten class to end.

  “Excuse me, excuse me.” Pamela could barely breathe. She swung open the door and burst into the room. “Sorry … sorry … I just need Faye.”

  Pamela spotted her daughter’s head first, the white bow, the stringy blonde hair, then her plump little red cheeks and the blue-and-green-checked dress they’d chosen together that morning.

  “Faye!” Pamela dashed to her, slid to her knees, and hugged the child. “Oh baby, thank God you’re okay.” She locked Faye in her arms, rocking her back and forth, their heads nestled together.

  The teachers, Trevor and Cindy Samuelson, looked at each other.

  “I’m sorry to barge in,” Pamela said. “We’ve had—”

  “What’s wrong, Mommy?” Faye pulled back a few inches and set her little hands on Pamela’s shoulders. “Did you see the bad man too?”

  12

  Jack gripped Rebecca’s sweaty hand tighter, but he was hurrying so fast that she was pouting and dragging three feet behind by the time they got to Faye’s room.

  “Have you seen him?” Jack’s blood pumped feverishly through his wrists and pounded at his temples.

  “No.” Pam hugged Rebecca, then yanked Jack’s hand, her eyes bulging. “But Faye thinks she saw him.”

  He did a double take at Pam, dropped to one knee, and took Faye’s little hands in his. “Tell me what you saw, Faye.” His eyes were just inches from hers. “Do you think you saw the man who broke into our house?”

  Jack felt Pam’s hand rest on his shoulder and her fingers digging in. That meant, “Be gentle.” It meant, “Don’t scare the girls.”

  Faye blinked slowly and nodded. “I told Miss Cindy, but she didn’t believe me.”

  “When? When did you see him?” Jack wiggled her little hands, trying to keep it light, but his neck and shoulders were as taut as the strings on a banjo. “Where were you?”

  “We went for a potty break, and I saw him getting a drink. It was him, Daddy. His clothes were black, just like when he came into our house. And he had those pointy boots.”

  “He was getting a drink at the fountain?” Jack scanned the hallway.

  “Uh-huh. He smiled and waved at me, but I didn’t wave back.”

  Jack’s head buzzed with static and seemed to lift from his shoulders.

  “Should I have waved?” Faye said. “It felt mean not to. He seemed nice.”

  Pam hugged her hard. “You did the right thing, honey. No, we never wave or get near strangers, especially the man in black. You did so good.”

  Jack remained kneeling. Calm … be calm. We’re okay. We’re all okay.

  He forced himself to shed the hatred and revulsion that were mixing like toxins in his head. He shook away the dread and wrath that boiled and steamed and threatened to poison the wisdom he knew was in there somewhere.

  He drew Faye and Rebecca close. He took in the people walking past and standing in the halls.

  There was no one in black.

  Faye wore the nonchalant look of a bored spectator at a chess match, but Rebecca’s nostrils flared, her lower lip quivered. She was old enough to know something very wrong was going down.

  It ticked him off so bad that this, this demon was scaring his girls.

  Jack forced himself to take in as much air as his lungs would hold, silently trying to invite the Holy Spirit in anew at the same time, then exhaled aloud. He was so mad. He felt so distant from God.

  Pam’s dark eyes met his and locked. They seemed to pulsate with terror and blaze with rage at the same time.

  “All right.” He stood, resolving to be steady, unflinching. “Will you take these, please?” He handed Pam his Bible and journal and took the girls by the hands. “What do you ladies say we go get Mommy’s Bible at the lost and found then go get some pizza on our way home?”

  “Campolo’s!” Faye yelled. “I’m starving. We didn’t have a snack today. Miss Cindy said Mr. Trevor forgot. He was supposed to bring Tootsie Rolls, but he forgot them.”

  He nodded at her and gently squeezed her arm. “Come on,” Jack encouraged. “You wanted black olives, no sausage, you got it. Everybody up. Here we go.”

  They stood and smoothed the wrinkles from their outfits, wiped wet noses on tissues Pam produced from her purse, grabbed hands, and headed for the lost and found. Actually, the lost and found wasn’t a room at all but a large cardboard box on the floor behind the reception counter next to the basement-level exit.

  “Here, give me your stuff.” Jack took Pam’s purse and the things she had been carrying. “We’ll wait for you over by the doors.”

  While she went to find the Bible, Jack knelt with the girls, found the papers they’d brought from their classes, and asked Rebecca to tell him what she’d learned in class.

  “We learned about Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego.”

  Jack examined her artwork—a coloring book picture she’d done neatly, in all colors, of King Nebuchadnezzar’s three chosen servants wandering about unscathed in a blazing furnace.

  “What a great picture. I love the colors you chose.” He forced himself to sound calm. “What’s the one big thing you learned from the story?”

  In the background of Rebecca’s picture, but in the fire with the three devoted men of God, was a fourth man. Jack knew from the account in the book of Daniel and from the traditional way in which the man was portrayed—handsome, strong, bearded—that he was Jesus.

  “If you believe in God, he’ll take care of you, even if you have to go into a really, really hot fire,” Rebecca said. “But you have to believe, or it won’t work.”

  “I see.” It took a second, but her words registered and Jack pondered them. Funny how, from a child’s perspective, everything was so simple, so cut-and-dried. It was as if Rebecca viewed God as some larger-than-life magician. If you believed the magician was real and had power, he knew it and helped you. However, if you said you believed but really didn’t, he knew that too and refused to find favor on you.

  Jack believed God spoke to people in different ways—through the Bible, through circumstances, dreams, other people. Rebecca’s words were a reminder that God was that intimate and that involved in Jack’s life, that he was speaking to him at that very moment through his own seven-year-old daughter.

  They were in a fire.

  Did they believe Christ was in it with them, able to keep them unharmed?

  Really believe?

  Something alit in Jack’s spirit. The uncomplicated little Sunday school lesson he held in his hand had been custom-tailored specifically for him, in that moment, at that precise second.

  With her back to Jack and the girls, Pam drifted into a corner with her
Bible.

  Jack’s eyes found the words above Rebecca’s coloring.

  Nebuchadnezzar was furious. He ordered the furnace heated seven times hotter than normal. Strong soldiers tied them up and threw them into the blaze. Nebuchadnezzar said, “What god will be able to rescue you from my hand?”

  Pam had retrieved her Bible and was peering down at it, leafing through it.

  Below Rebecca’s picture Jack found the mother lode, the words that had been designed for him in that moment, before the beginning of time:

  Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego said, “O Nebuchadnezzar, if we are thrown into the blazing furnace, the God we serve is able to save us. But even if he does not, we want you to know, O king, that we will not serve your gods or worship the image of gold.”

  Whoa.

  He’d read the account before, but it had never hit him like that—like a Mack truck.

  God can save us from this trial, but what if he doesn’t? What if the worst happens? What if that’s his will? How will you do then? What kind of Christian will you be then?

  “Daddy.” Rebecca tugged Jack’s sleeve and held up a piece of candy in a yellow wrapper. “Can I have this Tangy Taffy?”

  “Yes, sweetie, but that’s all. We’re going to have lunch soon.”

  “That’s not fair,” Faye whined. “I didn’t get a treat ’cause Mr. Trevor forgot—”

  “Or maybe you didn’t know your Bible good enough,” Rebecca said.

  “It’s not good enough, Rebecca, it’s well enough,” Jack said. Faye’s temper flared and she started to protest, but Jack cut in. “And that wasn’t a very nice thing to say.”

  “Sorry, Daddy.” Rebecca proceeded to open the Tangy Taffy.

  “Tell Faye you’re sorry,” Jack said.

  “Sorry, Faye. Here.” Rebecca bit half of the candy and handed the other half to her sister, dangling the yellow glob by one sticky finger.

  Faye’s eyes lit up. “Thank you, sister!”

  From across the room, Jack saw Pam’s whole body tighten and sway. Her head swiveled toward him, her eyebrows angled up high above frightened eyes. The horror resonating from his lovely wife’s face was bone-chilling.

  “You guys sit down.” Jack pounded the floor by the wall and eased them both down. “I’m going to see what Mommy’s doing. Stay right here.”

  Pam had three things in her hands when he got to her. In her right was the thick maroon Bible. In her left was a sheet of wrinkled, yellow-lined notebook paper filled with handwriting in blue ink. On top of it was the piece of their wedding photograph that had been sliced out and removed from the frame on their mantel.

  Jack grabbed the yellow paper and photo from her hand.

  The back of the photo was charred black and portions of the front were burned as well. A frown had been scribbled over his smile with black marker; lines had been scratched over his eyes to make them look closed. A noose was drawn around his neck, leading to a knot behind the neck and a line leading up and off the photograph, as if he’d been hung.

  Jack glanced back at the girls, then slipped the photo into the Bible and held the yellow paper. The small, slanted handwriting covered both sides of the page.

  Pamela,

  I know I shouldn’t be doing this. Life has not been good. I don’t even know what friendship is. Thinking about you gives me something to cling to.

  There was no one like you. You were always gracious when no one else was. You helped me and talked to me. You laughed with me, not at me. I remember you looking me in the eyes and actually listening—and even speaking up for me. Do you remember holding my hand? I will never forget it. I thought we might kiss that one day. I wanted to, but I was too scared to tell you.

  Jack read faster and faster in disbelief.

  I watched you on your wedding day.

  Do you ever think of me? Could it have been me at the altar? Could Faye and Rebecca be our children? I regret not pursuing you. I should have been the one to win your heart. Maybe then my life would have turned out normal.

  I am an outcast. People despise me. I feel like the trash they trample in the street. I’ll be honest, it’s almost as if I have purposefully fueled peoples’ hatred and disgust. Probably because I was taught to believe I was a waste of life. Am I, Pamela?

  A hailstorm of fury whirled in Jack’s head. He had to get a gun … contact Officer DeVry … get Pam and the girls out of the house … track this freak down.

  I don’t think you realized what your small acts of kindness did for me.

  That’s why I began thinking of you again. I told myself—it’s wrong! But I was so low. It was so black. The memory of you kept me alive. You saved my life—again—just like in school.

  Then I wanted more. Just to see you, but it got worse. My mind began playing tricks. I started to believe—really believe—if something happened to Jack, I could take his place. You know, come onto the scene like your knight in shining armor.

  Jack let the letter crunch to his side and shot Pam a look, but she was in a world of her own, curling the pages of her Bible with her thumb, probably looking for any more evidence from the nutcase who’d decided to turn their lives upside down. He held the letter up to read the last of it.

  It’s gotten worse. I’m messed up. I know that. If you could talk to me like you used to. But we are past that now, aren’t we?

  I want to cry out, help me, Pam, please, won’t you help me make sense of this life? Won’t you help me get my sanity back?

  But now I’ve gone and done it. The demons are so much louder than the truth. The only thing I know is that you cared, and I want that again. It’s wrong. You belong to someone else. You are the mom of two kids. But the voice in my wretched mind keeps screaming that none of that matters. We still have a chance. And even if none of that is true, I believe you are the only thing in this life that will make it worth living.

  From the lost boy, with love,

  G.M.

  13

  “I know who it is,” Pamela heard herself say, softly, evenly, as if in a trance.

  “What?” The letter crumpled at Jack’s side. “Who?”

  “Granger Meade.” She spoke weakly, as if all her energy had been zapped. “He lived in my neighborhood. We grew up together.”

  “Pam, are you serious? You know this person?”

  “No one liked him. I felt sorry for him. I know it’s him.”

  “Are you sure?” Jack’s eyes were huge.

  She nodded and stared off, remembering the snowy winter wonderland bus stop at the end of her street in Cleveland Heights. Granger would stand there day after day in the predawn chill, so big and awkward with his large, black trombone case, never knowing exactly what to say or do. They’d been in the same elementary school before that.

  “He had oily red hair,” she mumbled. “He was tall, broad, fair … It’s him.” She nodded slowly, looking at nothing, recalling everything from the previous days with chilling clarity.

  Jack scanned the basement level of the church, looked over at the girls and back at her. “Okay, we gotta tell the police, now.” He rested his hands atop her shoulders. “This is good, Pam.” He took her face in his hands and fixed his eyes on hers, like a coach attempting to revive a pulverized boxer in the corner of the ring between rounds. “This is really good. They’ll get him now. It’ll be over soon.”

  With quick movements and quiet but gentle commands, Jack led Pamela and the girls down the hall and into a vacant children’s classroom. He pulled up a small blue chair for her in a corner and a basket of toys for the girls, then got busy on his phone. The odor of dirty diapers enveloped them, but it didn’t faze Pamela—and the girls certainly didn’t seem to notice.

  From the opposite corner of the room, Pamela heard Jack leaving a message for Officer DeVry, explaining the returned Bible, the defaced photograph, the letter. She also heard him mention the name Granger Meade.

  Funny, but somehow knowing it was him who’d been behind everything was a relief. T
hat was lunacy, she knew. There was plenty to fear, based on all that had happened already, the letter and the sordidness of it all. As she stared at Rebecca and Faye, each dinging a xylophone as they sat on the red rubber mat in that sour-smelling room, she realized she was somewhat paralyzed by what she could only assume was a combination of disbelief, curiosity, and fear. She would work her way back to sickening reality soon enough.

  But for a moment, just a fleeting moment, while she sat comatose in that chair, Pamela allowed herself to drift back to her youth in Cleveland Heights, where indeed Granger Meade had seemed an odd but harmless boy. He had been extraordinarily quiet and was, frankly, somewhat of an oaf. And, although he was uncomfortably awkward and came across as a self-proclaimed nuisance, she had liked him.

  Certainly none of her friends understood her kindness to Granger. The crux of it was, he had no friends. That’s what had bothered her so. He was a loner. And she had decided to do her small part, whatever she could, to make his life a little happier. So she made a habit of asking him questions—about band, classes, his job as an usher at the theater in the local mall. But never about family. No, no—she’d gone there once or twice, only to be told on both occasions that “My mother and father hate me. I’m an anathema to them.”

  Vividly Pamela remembered going home, heading straight to the living room, and looking up anathema in the big red family dictionary. Just as clearly, she recalled several of the words from its definition that had stood out so potently: detested, denounced … cursed.

  Although Pamela’s own family had been dysfunctional, at least they loved each other, even if it was buried beneath layers of distrust and paranoia. For that reason, because she had thought her family was about as weird as they came, she always assumed Granger exaggerated and said such things simply to gain attention.

  There were rumors, however, about Granger’s parents being some kind of fanatical fundamentalist Christians. His father was supposedly a church deacon and his mother, who never wanted children and always wanted to be a missionary, was said to despise Granger and told him repeatedly that he was neither planned nor wanted.